


Everything They Found in Hell

by Shadowed_Voices



Series: Oneshots of Dubious Quality [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Getting Together, Hell, Kidfic, M/M, Torture, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowed_Voices/pseuds/Shadowed_Voices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angel shudders. Wonders if Uriel planned it, watched. The angel had been close to those who Fell when he was a fledgling. Coddled by Lucifer when he was newly made. Was it a test? Did he fail?</p><p>-</p><p>Something I wrote two, three years ago and forgot about. I made some quick edits. Hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything They Found in Hell

The first time Dean sees and angel, he is ten. He’s ten and a Hunter — well, he wants to be but Dad makes him stay home and watch Sammy. Keep Sammy safe. Don’t let Sammy get into trouble. Don’t tell Sammy what’s out there. — so seeing an angel is odd, but not scary. Only little kids are scared of the supernatural. Dean’s not little. He can shoot a gun and knows how to use a knife. Sammy’s little; he can’t do either of those things.

Besides, it’s not like angels exist. If angels are real, then they would have saved Mom.

No, the boy huddled in the dirt and metal scraps that surround Bobby junk cars is not an angel, even though he has wings. Dad says that if it’s not human it’s a monster, and all monsters deserve to die.

The boy in the dirt isn’t acting like a monster, though. And, aside from the wings, he doesn’t look like one either. He’s a bit thin, although the loose blue clothing hides most of his body. Pale too. A mess of inky hair fans around his arms because his face is buried in his knees. His wings, feathers as messy and black as his hair, and shoulders quiver like Sammy’s do after a nightmare. When he doesn’t want to let Dean know that he’s crying.

It is only because of years spent listening for any indication that Sammy is upset that Dean notices the slight whimpering noises, like muffled sobs.

Dean dithers for a moment — go back to the house and get Bobby or find out what’s wrong? Dad says never to trust monsters. They’ll lie and lie until you believe them and, just when you think you’re safe, they’ll kill you faster than blinking. But the boy is crying. It’s not the type of crying that begs for attention, but the type that says he’s scared and alone. The bad type. And if Dad’s trained him to do anything, it’s to be a brother first.

He shuffles back around the corner, hiding behind the great pile of cars, before sighing loudly and scuffing his sneakers in the dirt as he re-approaches the boy. Monster. Whatever.

"You okay?" Dean asks, but apparently his plan to make as much noise as possible failed because the boy leaps up, hands frantically swiping over reddened eyes. Dust scatters as wings flail, trying to keep balanced.

Wide blue eyes stare and a quivering mouth opens and closes around silent words. Probably a different language because Dean can’t read them from pale lips. “You can see me?” finally escapes in a strangled whisper. Dean nods once, absently kicking a broken hubcap. “Oh. That’s not supposed to happen.”

"Why?"

The longest flight feathers twitch and the fluffy ones at the top, nearest the boy’s still shoulders, stand on end like some sort of shrug. “Humans aren’t s’posed to see angels unless we have a vessel. And I’m too young.” His voice is like Dean’s when reciting Dad’s rules. (Don’t leave the room. Don’t open the door. Don’t get into trouble. Take care of Sammy.) “I’m Castiel. What’s your name?”

Dean pauses a moment before the ingrained introduction to regard the apparent angel. Face down turned, eyes on the ground, and shoulder hunched forwards. Classic kid “I don’t know what to do, but I’m trying even though I’m scared.” He’s seen it time and again in school when a new kid is instructed to greet the class. Although, usually he’s the new kid. What’s different are the wings curving around like a security blanket, the fingers clasped white-knuckled around handfuls of feathers.

He hold out his hand. “Nice to meet you Castiel. I’m Dean.”

—-

"The first seal has broken," Michael snaps. His eyes roam over his army. An impressive display of Heaven's garrisons, wings beating in sync, identical in their armor. "In three days a team will be dispatched to retrieve my vessel. Are there any volunteers?"

—-

They’re lounging on the sun-heated roof of a Toyota, five cars up from the ground. From what Castiel can see of Dean’s face, the human boy is grinning up at the clear blue sky. Between them is a pile of ripe plums and below them are scattered pits. Dean never asks where his friend gets the fruit just as Castiel never wonders about the nearly endless supply of Popsicles and candy.

"One of these day," Dean muttered once around a mouthful of grape flavored ice, "you’re going to eat a hamburger."

It’s strange, the fledgling angel thinks, just how close they’ve gotten in a week. It’s even stranger to be measuring time by human standards. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Seven days is a week and in that short time Dean has told him all about the demon that killed his mother and how Sammy’s always complaining about their father and switching schools and friends. He’s told about Hunting, of wanting to be a Hunter, but not how Sam holds him back. Because Dean doesn’t think like that, Castiel’s realized, and the angel has learned how to read between the lines of what Dean won’t say to learn the truth.

Dean’s never had real friends. He never went to school until he was eight and Sammy was old enough for preschool. He’s always late to class because Sammy’s class starts later - he always walked his brother to and from school. His homework (a concept Castiel had the hardest time grasping), if he bothers to complete it, is of poor quality because he spends so long learning how to fight, learning to protect his brother instead.  In his father’s eyes, Dean will never be good enough because he is a child, not a soldier. And John needs a soldier by his side, not a little boy.

Castiel, on the other hand, has told Dean of the fledgling class of angels. He’s the youngest of his nest, although there are two nests younger than his who have yet to grow in their flight feathers. Originally he’d been assigned to the archangel Gabriel’s garrison, but Gabriel disappeared last cycle, so his garrison was split between Uriel and Raphael. Castiel went to Uriel. He’s told Dean of his sister, Anna, who Fell when flying lessons began. None of the other angels speak kindly of her anymore. They call her weak and Castiel, who has always been good at flying, doesn’t see why. If everything is Father’s Plan, how can her Fall be any different?

Dean doens’t know the answer to that, not that Castiel expected him to. He’s human and although he understands a lot about Heaven from the angel’s explanations, he cannot provide answers to questions Castiel himself doesn’t understand. That doesn’t mean he has not tried, though.

"People here, humans y’know? We like things being easy. It’s easier to blame a, um, a scapegoat I think. Maybe. I dunno. Maybe your garrison doesn’t wanna think your father planned f’r your sister to Fall, because what if he planned everything? Even things like your brother rebelling." Dean takes a moment to lick plum juice off his hand. There is not difference in the state of cleanliness as more juice drips from the half-massacred piece of fruit. Castiel grins, hiding it behind another bite from his own plum. "It’s easier for them to blame Anna for being weak."

The pair sits in contemplative silence for a few minutes as they finish the fruit. Then Castiel reaches out and shoves playfully at Dean’s shoulder. “Tag! You’re it!”

"No fair!" Dean should, scrambling to get down from their tower even as his friend glides quickly to the ground. They chase each other around, through and over the maze of wrecked cars. Eventually, amid gales of laughter and shouting, the game turns from tag to simple running, playfully pushing each other around corners and low hoods, rolling with childlike abandon in the dust.

—-

One angel drops silently out of the ranks, black wings folded to aid his descent. He bows low on one knee before Michael. His blue eyes glitter in the light of his brother’s reflected grace. “I volunteer.”

—-

In Hell there is a human. He has survived more than thirty years under the daily attention of Alistair’s blade. His skin has been ripped, shredded, burned and the muscles beneath defiled. Bones shattered and splintered. This man is offered, “Take up the blade and I’ll set you free," at the end of every session, before the laborious, torturous process of resetting bones and attaching limbs and replacing internal organs can begin. For more than thirty years his answer has been no.

—-

It is not a garrison that attacks the gates of Hell. It is one angel who slips past the guards and into the fire while the armies of Heaven watch from above, plotting war. He flies high and fast, black wings beating silent against the heat. It takes five years to reach the depths. Five years of constant flying. No contact with the host. Not a single prayer can pass his mind.

Otherwise, all is lost.

—-

The first body Alistair gives the human is of a blue eyed little boy. He spends three weeks giving him wings of skin and bone torn from his back and other souls. Feathers carved and crafted. Each one original. Intricate. Blonde hair stained dark with blood and ash. And the demons laugh and laugh and laugh.

—-

The first demon to see the angel is barely even a demon at all. His eyes are black, but he’s young and quivers in terror at the sight of so much holy grace. Hanging limply from his back are a pair of delicate wings. The angel shudders and leaves it be.

—-

For a year the human hones his skills with a blade. His fingers become quick. He no longer hesitates over the cuts. Only the blue-eyed ones keep their eyes under him. Only the children get wings.

Demons are born under his hands faster even than Alistair managed. Weaker, yes, but numerous.

—-

The angel stops flying for the first time in ten years at a rack kept separate from the others. It is near a wall where feathers have been carved. “I am Dean Winchester” scraped over and over into the black stone. And in those words a different name, indistinguishable. There is a demon slumped over the chains and blood, knife flickering between his fingers.

"Take up the blade and get off the rack, they said." The angel has to lean over to hear the raspy voice even though the chamber is empty and silent. "I tried so hard to be strong. I did. I did. But it wasn’t enough."

Human eyes glare up through long blonde hair. “You left me to die, you know. Two month together and you left me to die.”

"I didn’t mean to," the angel tries. He tries to remember, but it was such a long time ago, near his beginning millennia ago, and Uriel did his best to burn the memories out of him. Human filth. Contamination. "I only wanted to share. Flight. It was the one thing I could not explain. You did not understand. I wanted to share it with you."

"You left me to die."

"I’m sorry. I did not know they would come for me then. It had been two months."

The knife glitters although there is no light to reflect. “I let you. I was so excited. I let you take me in your arms and take me into your sky. And it was your sky. I was trespassing. Because the moment we were up Uriel descended.”

The angel shudders. Wonders if Uriel planned it, watched. The angel had been close to those who Fell when he was a fledgling. Coddled by Lucifer when he was newly made. Was it a test? Did he fail? The memory, now renewed, haunts him. _His wings strained against Dean’s added weight, but they were up, twenty feet off the ground. Dean laughed, head pushed back against Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel laughed too. And like his joy was the key angels poured out of the sky. Uriel caught them first. He ripped Castiel’s arms from around his friend and, when they were just connected by fingertips, kicked Dean in the chest. Dean’s screams as he fell were never as terrifying as the way they stopped, abruptly, moment before Castiel was ripped back to Heaven._

Dean smiles and it’s Dean, not a demon. “You’re late,” he whispers. He reaches up with blood stained fingers, smearing muck across Castiel’s pale face and wrapping his hand around the back of the angel’s neck. Then he leans up. Their lips touch and Castiel’s hand on Dean shoulder burns with an outpouring of grace, searing away the taint of Hell.

When they meet in the barn, Castiel forgets to freeze Bobby. Because he’s staring at Dean hoping beyond hope that his friend will consciously remember what his soul always know. And Dean says, “Hey Cas,” with a smile. And it says everything they found in Hell.

_I love you._


End file.
